


A glimpse of the future

by Atanih88



Series: Superbat Week 2019 [3]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, Quiet fic, Unresolved, mentions of Clark/Lois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 21:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: Written forsuperbatweekDay 3’s prompt 'heat vision'.





	A glimpse of the future

**Author's Note:**

> Very late and I still have today’s prompt to post. I don’t know what happened, it was supposed to be a short fic and it kind of turned into this. Whatever this is. Un-beta’d. Hope you enjoy!

It's still in the room; the smell of burnt hair and skin.

Bruce breathes in and breathes out. His knees are drawn up under the sheets and his head is buried in his arms as he draws in careful breath after careful breath. 

The screams are too loud, reaching him even beyond the dream. He can't shake the image of Superman's eyes, overflowing with white heat—the certainty that Bruce would be next. It's seared into his mind and Bruce can't escape it, can still see it, the same way spots burst like fireworks behind closed eyelids after staring at the sun for too long.

But his heartbeat slows, under his control again and the sweat on his nape and on his back begins to dry. 

Steadier, Bruce unfurls and squints. 

Swollen clouds cover the sky, crowding each other.

Although there isn't much light it still feels like too much. He hasn't slept long enough. He knows that.

But from the first night of Clark's return, the nightmares had come back right along with him.

Rain slews down the side of the house, blurring the grey storm outside. 

Bruce firms his jaw. He can still feel that powerful fist punching through him. He touches the skin with light fingers, presses harder when his chest doesn't automatically scream in pain. He flattens his palm. Relief ripples him, leaving his every hair standing on end.

The rain turns vicious, pelting the glass walls now.

Bruce shoves the sheets aside and heads for the shower.

It takes longer than he'd like to scrub his skin until the burning smell disappears completely. It doesn't matter that nothing was ever really burning. He doesn't want any of it on his skin, doesn't want any part of that dream to linger on him, any part of Clark to lodge like a shard of broken glass in his mind.

Bruce wraps a towel around his hips when he comes out and stands at the sink. He stares at the hastily wiped mirror, traces of condensation marring the reflection of his face. The rims of his eyes are red and his face is leeched of life. And then that disappears as the steam eats up the clear surface again.

Bruce splashes cold water on his face and then walks back out, still rubbing at his face. He can't manage more than pulling a robe on and belting it before heading out into the open space of the living room.

The storm outside batters the side of the house and the surface of the lake is alive under the onslaught of rain.

'Ah, Master Wayne, you're up. Good. You have a visitor.'

Bruce only has enough time to glance up, catch a glimpse of Alfred's impassive face and take the espresso from his hand. 

He stills when he glimpses the unexpected visitor over Alfred's shoulder, sitting on the edge of the settee, red flannel and worn jeans an unexpected splash of colour inside the lake house.

Bruce straightens, armour slotting into place, wiping any hint of weariness from his face even as he feels resentment prick at him for being caught off guard.

From where he sits, Clark gives him a nervous smile; he's got his elbows planted on his knees, hands clasped together as he waits.

'Bruce,' Clark says.

'Clark.' He turns to Alfred, who is still at his side, eyebrows arched.

'I'll make myself scarce shall I?' Alfred says. 'I'll be in the cave if you need me,' and then in undertone, 'and perhaps it would be good to remember that we are _polite_ to guests. Even unexpected ones,' he says, mildly. 'Mr Kent, can I get you anything before I leave?'

At that, Clark stands and scrubs his hands over his thighs. 'Ah, no. Thank you, Alfred, I'm fine.'

'Not at all. Pleasure to see you, Mr Kent.' And then, with a pointed look at Bruce, Alfred leaves them to it. 

The sound of the rain fills the quiet between them. 

Bruce sips at the hot shot of strong coffee and watches Clark over the rim of it. 

He doesn’t quite fit in Bruce's home. 

'Sorry to barge in on you like this,' Clark says, and his smile turns sheepish.

Bruce thinks about excusing himself and getting dressed, wants his cuffs in place; tie tucked into his waistcoat, to be able to slide his hands into his pockets, Bruce Wayne firmly in place. But doing that feels too much like a retreat.

Which shouldn't matter.

They're not enemies. Not anymore. 

Still.

In the end Bruce strides over to where Clark still stands, seeming unsure of his welcome. Clark himself looks thrown, eyes sweeping over Bruce's wet hair, down to his bared calves and feet as Bruce walks over to the armchair and sits down.

Clark sits back down too, still rubbing his hands over his thighs.

'It's no problem. What can I do for you, Clark?'

Clark watches him, eyes focused with an unusual intensity on Bruce's face.

When he speaks, it's as if he's addressing a spooked animal. 'Well. The meeting with the UN is in a couple of weeks. I guess I just wanted to,' he shrugs, 'go over it. I know you've spoken to Diana about it.' He stops there. 'But if this is a bad time—'

Bruce waves that away, finishes the shot of caffeine.

He can still feel the throb of a hole in his chest. He wonders if that's what it had felt like to Clark, when Doomsday had put a hole through him instead.

_You were right about him. You've always been right about him._

'Bruce?'

Clark's eyes are on him, eyebrows puckered. It's only when Clark's gaze flicks down to Bruce's chest that Bruce realises he's slipped his hand into his robe and splayed his hand over the spot that had been punched through in the dream.

And Bruce does something then that he hasn't done in a very long time. 

He decides to try. He decides, this time, to trust.

'What if,' Bruce says, 'they ask you what's stopping you from turning on them?'

At that, Clark's face shuts down. His jaw clenches and his stare turns hard. 'I thought we were past this.'

Bruce leans forward and sets the empty cup on the table and he steeples his fingers together. 'That's not what this is about.'

'Isn't it?' Clark stands and all of a sudden, it's like he fills the entire room. 'We've been working together side by side, Bruce. I think I've proven that I can—'

'Before you died,' and that seems to stop Clark pretty effectively, because surprise flitters over his face and then confusion adds lines to his forehead, bows the corners of his mouth, 'I saw something.'

'Saw what?'

Bruce breathes in deep to maintain that steady heartbeat, to maintain composure. 'Barry,' Bruce says.

'Barry? Bruce, I don't—'

'Clark. What would you do if you lost Lois?'

'What?'

'Everything I saw that day was something that I think Barry was trying to tell me would come to pass.'

'You're saying you think I'd turn on the world because Lois left me?'

'No. I'm asking you what would happen to you if Lois died.'

Clark stares at him. But Bruce notes it, the way Clark's eyes change, the way his nostrils flare and he flinches—barely visible to anyone else, but not to Bruce. Just the thought of it, of Lois' death, hits Clark physically; Bruce can see it happening right in front of him.

Bruce watches, quiet, as Clark clenches his jaw, muscle working in his cheek, his hands fisting at his side. Then Clark's gaze falls to the floor and that energy that had filled him, filled the room, that energy that's red and blue and holds Clark up in front of the sun like a God, saps out of him. 

It's Clark Kent in Bruce's home, lost and confused and like he doesn't know what else to give of himself.

'I don't know,' Clark says, voice so low Bruce almost doesn't catch it, 'I don't want to think—it's Lois.' He says it like that's everything.

'I think Superman can survive losing Lois. I don't think Superman can survive losing Clark Kent. And Clark,' Bruce can see Clark bracing himself for what Bruce is going to say next, 'I'm not sure Clark Kent can survive losing Lois.'

Clark paces over to look out at the lake. 'You think it meant something? What you saw? It wasn't just—'

Bruce takes in the crossed arms, the curled in shoulders. But there's nothing Bruce can do about that.

'What else?' Clark asks.

Bruce waits until Clark faces him again. 'What else what?'

'What else did this Barry say? What did you see, Bruce?' Clark's eyes drop to where Bruce's hand is still splayed over his own chest.

Bruce pulls his hand away. He gets up and makes another coffee. 

It's something he hasn't even told Alfred, hasn't told Diana. It'd felt like too much of a step back. 

But he owes Clark this much. 

Bruce tells Clark everything, standing on one side of the kitchen island, Clark on the other. Clark's tea stays untouched between the palms of his hands, his gaze fixed on it until Bruce finishes. Not that it takes that long. 

It seems so much bigger in Bruce's dreams, so much longer, like Bruce could get lost in that moment forever—strung up, vulnerable, nothing left to help him survive—

'I'm blaming you for it,' Clark finally says.

Bruce sips the coffee. It's subpar compared to Alfred's.

'I don't know what you want me to do with this, Bruce.'

And this is the thing that gets Bruce. The sheer amount of human emotion packed into Clark. His entire being straining towards Bruce, hands planted on the island, like he's asking Bruce for something. Anything. Maybe even asking Bruce to take this back. To take everything back.

'Does anyone else know?' Clark asks.

'No.'

'Thank you.'

Bruce isn't sure what Clark is thanking him for.

'I should go.' Clark picks up the mug as if to go put it in the sink and pauses as if surprised to see it's still full. He drinks the whole thing down in one; throat working with it and then takes it and places it carefully in the sink.

Bruce watches him go. 

Clark stops at the front door, hand out to open it. 'You think I can stop it from happening?'

Bruce leans his hip against the island, rubs a hand over stubble. 'I have eyes on Lois, Clark. It won't happen on my watch.'

'That's not what I meant.' Clark looks over his shoulder at Bruce. 'If something does happen to Lois. If—if we can't stop it and somehow, somehow I,' Clark squares his shoulders. 'Do you think there's something we can do? To stop me? To stop everything you've seen?'

The rain has slowed outside, the clouds beginning to split, allowing for fragile slithers of light to cut through and touch the lake.

'I don't think anything could stop you if you turned.'

'You stopped me.'

And Bruce will do it again, if he has to. It doesn't matter if guilt chews at the edges of what's left of him, of what makes _Bruce_ human. Bruce will do it again. But if there's another way—any other way—then he hopes Clark finds it.

'Find someone else.'

Clark steps back from the door, turning fully to face Bruce. 'To stop me?'

'No.' Bruce meets that blue gaze head on. 'To anchor you. Find someone else who'll matter to you, as much as Lois. And maybe when,' Bruce sighs, ' _if_ the time comes. Maybe they'll have enough of you to keep you on this side.'

For a long moment, Clark just looks at him. With a nod, he opens the door and disappears out into the rain.

Bruce stays until the rain stops and the lake is calm.

The tentative touches of light disappear as the clouds close back up.

~

The UN meeting is televised.

It's their first united appearance. They call them the Justice League and social media apps and sites crash under the onslaught of activity. It takes three hours before they're up and running again.

All in all, it doesn’t go as badly as it could've done. But they all feel it, the targets on their backs. Bruce is sure they're already in the middle every inch of information they have on them all, doing their best to develop weapons that could put them down.

Bruce doesn't blame them. It's the smart thing to do.

Superman's cape is a bright crimson banner in the grand room. He stands tall, confidence and calm etched into his every line. 

It's the first time Bruce has seen him since Clark showed up at the lake house.

Bruce keeps himself in the background, watches as they all soak in Superman's strength and the truth that rings out in Diana's every word. The rest of them decline to speak and Bruce removes himself shortly after. It's better for their image in general, if Bruce isn't there, if he isn't automatically associated as a core member of this new beacon of hope.

'That went rather well, wouldn't you say, sir?'

Bruce drops the chains, chest heaving from the effort, arms burning. He leans his arms on the supportive beams and swipes the side of his face against his shoulder.

Alfred lays a towel and a change of clothes next to Bruce's half empty bottle of water.

'Well,' Bruce says, filling his lungs with air, 'they didn't nuke us. I took that as a win.'

'Indeed.' Alfred adjusts his glasses and looks around the training room, a touch of exasperation on his face. 'Master Bruce, need I remind you that your prescriptions are still in the kitchen along with your untouched dinner. Now, while I understand you are keen to maintain your sheer animalistic mass should another showdown with a God-like entity occur,' Bruce has yet to meet anyone who can pull off dry like Alfred, 'you _are_ only human and do actually have to sustain yourself.'

'I get it, Alfred. I'm done for tonight.' Bruce pushes away from the beams, rolls his shoulders against the aches in his back. 'Gotham is quiet, for now.'

'Then may I suggest now might be an opportune time to take a break. Or would you prefer I set up an IV feed so that you can continue at break neck speed?'

Bruce sighs. 'Right. Thanks, Alfred. I'll be up in ten.'

'Very well. I'll see myself out for the night.'

Bruce unwinds the tapes from around his hands, walking over to the towel as he goes. 'Goodnight, Alfred.'

The lake house is surrounded by night when Bruce pads up to the main floor. The aftermath of the training exercises sits along his shoulders and burns in his thighs. Bruce shrugs on his t-shirt as he heads for the covered plate on the island, dimming the lights as he goes.

He drags over a stool and hitches himself onto it, muscles protesting. As he picks up the fork and begins to lift the cover off the plate, he catches movement in his peripheral. 

He turns to see Superman's booted feet touch gently on the lake's boardwalk.

Bruce puts the fork back down and moves off the stool.

Outside, Clark is staring out across the lake. He doesn't move even when Bruce walks to stand beside him.

'It went well today.'

Bruce folds his arms over his chest. 'Yeah.'

Clark tilts his head back. The breeze tugs at his cape, sends it rustling over the boardwalk. Its coolness is a welcome touch to Bruce's still overheated skin.

'I love Lois,' Clark says.

'I know.' Bruce sees a flash of movement further out in the lake, tenses as he tries to make out the shape and realises it's not one shape but two. Grey swans, graceful necks folded in on themselves, sleeping. He wonders how long they've been here.

'I can't switch that off. I don't want to.'

Bruce never thought Clark would. 'It is what it is.'

'But I've thought about what you said. About having an anchor, having someone else.'

Bruce stills. This isn't how he expected this conversation to go. He glances over at Clark and finds Clark watching him back. There's a small smile on his face, wry and a little sad.

'Clark. You know what I saw; you know that's not guaranteed? You know nothing is guaranteed.' And Bruce doesn't know why he's doing this, why he's trying to comfort when the smart thing to do here is to drum this into Clark, to account for every possible outcome and have a contingency plan for it.

Except that the Man of Steel is right here in front of him, a bone deep loneliness etched into the lines of his face.

'But you're preparing for it, aren't you?' Clark asks. 'Even now.'

Bruce drops his arms, sliding his hands into the pockets of his loose pants. He shifts so he's facing Clark. 'It's what I do.'

'I know,' Clark says. 

When Bruce doesn't say anything else, Clark walks to him, cape whispering over the floor behind him. Clark doesn't stop until he's close enough that just a step more would bring him into contact with Bruce.

Bruce's stomach rolls, apprehension stealing into him, knowing that Clark won't do anything, but unable to squash that sense of foreboding that's been in his blood since he first saw Superman crashing through Metropolis, bringing down buildings as if they were nothing more than toys in his way.

'I won't hurt you, Bruce. If any of this—all of it comes to pass. I won't hurt you.'

Bruce's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 'That's not something you can promise, Clark.'

And Bruce is familiar with the look that steals over Clark's face just then. 

It's the expression that turns him from Clark Kent into Superman. The same expression that Clark wore when he'd stopped Batman and threatened him. The same look he wore in their fight. 

The same one Clark wears in the desert nightmare. 

It means none of those things right now; means nothing but sheer determination, like the world will just bend to Clark's will if he wants it to.

And it would.

But Bruce's thoughts cut short when Clark cups Bruce's neck in his hands and thumbs Bruce's chin up.

Clark's cape brushes over Bruce's feet and Clark's mouth on his is dry and soft, his thumbs on the underside of Bruce's jaw twin points of warmth that hold Bruce still.

And Bruce—Bruce is stumped. Eyes wide open, Clark's black curling lashes going in and out of focus as he stands there, mind wiped clean of anything. He doesn't even notice that his own hands have come up to cup Clark's elbows.

Clark makes a noise, like he's the one caught off guard. He steps closer and Bruce feels the Superman crest press into his chest through his thin t-shirt. Clark's mouth presses against his a little harder, slotting against Bruce's. 

The flutter of wings and disturbed water registers in the back of Bruce's mind. But the thuds of his heart his beat louder in his ears.

Clark makes another soft sound, this one quieter and as he pulls away, his mouth catches on Bruce's bottom lip, dragging against it, leaving it damp. 

Bruce lets his hands fall back when Clark steps back.

'I can trust you not to die on me, right Bruce?' 

Clark lifts up into the air, effortless, hovers just a few inches above the ground, knee slightly elevated like he's poised to blast off. 

'You'll be the last thing standing between me and the world.' He smiles down at Bruce, still soft, still sad. 'And maybe if everything comes to pass, if the last thing standing between me and the world is my anchor, then…' Clark sighs and tilts his head up to the sky, 'maybe the world will stand a chance.'

Clark climbs higher in the sky. Bruce still hasn't found any words.

'I'm moving out tomorrow,' Clark says and he sounds so final. He glances down at Bruce then. 'Is it okay if I stop by? When it's all done?'

And Christ. He sounds young. He sounds young and heart broken and Bruce—

'Yeah,' Bruce's voice sounds like its been pushed out through a grater. 'You can.'

Clark nods once. 'Goodnight, Bruce.'

'Goodnight.'

The night sky swallows up the red and blue and the quiet of the lake grows loud.

Eventually, Bruce goes back inside.

That night, he doesn't wake up with molten eyes etched into his sight, doesn't wake up to the smell of melted skin or the phantom pain of a mortal wound in his chest.

That night, Bruce doesn't dream.


End file.
